


soap suds and capable hands

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Caretaking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hair Washing, M/M, Pining, Touching, aka Jask slowly falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:28:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22907020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: Jask wants to coax him into it, soap him up and wash him down in a way that strips him of all the mud and muck and misery of being a witcher on his lonesome, and he wants to watch what Geralt’s like beneath all of that, beneath the facade he’s learned he has to keep up in front of other people.3 times Jask helps Geralt bathe, and 1 time Geralt helps Jask
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 126
Kudos: 1453





	soap suds and capable hands

**1.**

Jaskier won’t take a bath tonight. That much he knows; it’s impossible to take a bath after a post-hunt Geralt and they don’t have the coin to have more water sent up. And Geralt, for all his uses, claims heating water with his _igni_ sign is more danger than it’s worth. But Jaskier supposes it makes sense. Wouldn’t do to catch the tub and tavern on fire all for a bath. No matter how tempting the idea is sometimes. 

But he’s not fussed tonight. Geralt’s been knee-deep in a bog and covered in monster guts, and Jask doesn’t want to step a toe into the tub after that muck’s been in it. And, unlike Geralt, all Jaskier did today was sit by and wait and compose. He’ll wash his face before bed and call it a day. 

“Do we have plans for tomorrow?” he asks, looking Geralt’s way. He figures it’s safe. Geralt had turned his back to undress and Jask had, too, from courtesy and the fact that he would have probably _stared_ if he hadn’t. Geralt is full of secrets and scars, and Jaskier is too curious for his own good. He won’t ask, he won’t stare, that’s rude and invasive in ways he knows Geralt will scowl about. But he’s curious. No harm in that. “Hunt wise?” 

“No.”

“Did we get the whole bounty from–”

“No.”

He heaves a sigh, put-upon. Annoyed, too. The contract had gone tits up halfway through and Geralt’s snit had been indicative of how Jask had expected returning to their contractor would go, but he’d _hoped…_ ah, well. “But some?”

“Yeah.”

“Enough for the room?”

“Barely.”

Jaskier frowns. “How much did they stiff us?”

“Enough,” Geralt says with something like finality. He’s still in a _mood,_ rightfully so, but the single-word answers are getting old fast. Nothing to be done. 

Except… Jaskier looks to the window, and the darkness beyond it, and can still hear the chatter of people down the hall in the bar. Maybe something. “I’ll go,” he decides.

“Go _where?”_

“Perform.”

“Oh, gods.”

“Don’t _‘oh, gods’_ me, Geralt. That song’s circulating well, I should get a few crowns while there’s still people in. It’s not a lot, but it’ll help supplement room and board until we can make up for the loss–”

“No.”

He looks back, where Geralt’s scrubbing at his shoulders. “What?”

“I don’t want your coin.”

“It’s _our_ coin.”

“Your performance, your coin,” Geralt grunts.

“Yes, but seeing as how we’re sharing a room, _anyway…”_ He’s derailed by the way Geralt inhales, low and sharp, and not in response to anything Jaskier’s saying. Geralt’s hands flutter, just for a moment, shoulders hunched, and then he splashes water up over the meagre soapsuds and they rinse away to reveal a mottled patch of black and blue skin just beyond his shoulder blade.

Jaskier gapes, and then takes a step forward. “You were hurt.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You didn’t say you got hurt!”

“It didn’t even _bleed,_ Jaskier. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing if it _hurts.”_ Hurts enough that Geralt doesn’t try to wash around it again, and the splashing water isn’t much help for whatever ichor he’d been showered with. Jask moves without thinking, taking two steps over to the tub while he rolls up his sleeves. He wets his hands and scoops the soap from the floor, methodical, mechanical, anxious. “You should have told me,” he says out loud, like he can do anything for a bruise of this extent.

Except he can, a little. He can, at least, wash around it for him. It’s his plan, at least, before he lays a hand on Geralt’s uninjured shoulder and the man flinches forward so that the water pitches over the side of the bath. He narrowly steps back to avoid the splashback, and his heart hammers a little. That had startled him. “Geralt,” he complains. 

“What are you _doing?”_

“I’m–” He doesn’t know, really. But yes, he does. He’s going to be useful where he can, he’s already decided. He’s good at words and songs– and that’s useful, no matter what Geralt says– but spreading fame provides coin, not aid. Injuries didn’t tend themselves. “I’m going to wash the collection of filth you’ve managed to layer on from your shoulder, _before_ you hurt yourself further.”

“It doesn’t–”

“Why’d you stop scrubbing yourself within an inch of your life, then?” Still, he’s a little more hesitant when he puts his fingertips again on Geralt’s back. He can’t not notice the tension, practically _feels_ it quivering beneath his palm when he braces it against Geralt’s skin. But Geralt doesn’t shrug him off, and Jask holds his wits about him. “I’ll be careful,” he promises, and he will. Not only because he knows Geralt can tear him limb to limb– not that he _would–_ if he did hurt him, but because he’s so strung up that Jaskier thinks, stupidly, Geralt must not be used to people touching him.

But of course he isn’t. He’s a witcher. Hated by many, revered by few. And that makes Jaskier’s stomach ache, the way Geralt’s holding himself now. But he can’t do much about that, so he’ll wash Geralt’s injury and help out how he can. Same as usual. 

“Sit up a bit,” he urges, and Geralt does. Stiff and otherwise unmoving, but he shifts that fraction of an inch so that Jaskier isn’t splashing water on the floor himself, and Jask gets to careful, careful work.

The bruise is a nasty one, but Jaskier knows it’ll heal. It isn’t an open wound and, that asides, Geralt seems to heal from those just fine with all those scars. Still, it’s already a mottled mess of deep color, and has to hurt to have gotten Geralt to flinch that way. It’s painful to just look at. So, Jaskier takes care with the soap in his hands, smoothing it slick over Geralt’s shoulder, collarbone, and torso. He’s cautious, overly so, maybe. But surprisingly, Geralt says nothing. Doesn’t chastise him, doesn’t berate him. Doesn’t say anything, just slowly loosens up beneath Jaskier’s touch. Bit by bit. The tension doesn’t leave altogether, not entirely, but it’s a start. It’s a start.

He wants to take that all away from him… wants to pull the energy and agony of every hunt and every contract away from him, knead it from his shoulders and let it melt away into the hot water below. He doesn’t know Geralt, not well. Not at _all,_ really, asides from the strong sense of morals and streak of hidden kindness. But he does so much. Does so much for other people who don’t appreciate it like they should, and Geralt knows it, and Jaskier knows it, too. He knows Geralt deserves to relax, at least every once in a while. And he knows Geralt doesn’t let himself, not in the way he should.

Jask wants to coax him into it, soap him up and wash him down in a way that strips him of all the mud and muck and misery of being a witcher on his lonesome, and he wants to watch what Geralt’s like beneath all of that, beneath the facade he’s learned he has to keep up in front of other people. The urge to learn him like that… gods, the stories he could tell. The songs he could sing.

He wants to keep working, wants to keep rubbing his hands, gently but firmly over Geralt’s scarred– now clean– skin. Wants to do that until Geralt’s laid bare in a way that’s nothing to do with the nudity in front of him. He wants to teach Geralt to trust. He wants to teach Geralt to trust _him._

But that’s just not in his job description. He may be Geralt’s closest confidante, but he doesn’t think Geralt considers him friend. And that’s okay. He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t have to consider him anything more than an irksome bard, and he certainly doesn’t owe Jaskier the deepest, most personal parts of himself, no matter how interesting a ballad they may make. He does, most importantly, deserve privacy of that kind.

So as much as Jask wants to keep probing, to keep touching and soothing and working into the chinks of Geralt’s metaphorical armor, he’s starting to feel the heat from the bath, and it’s suffusing further on his skin as he realizes he’s lingering with his hands on Geralt’s very broad, very capable shoulders. Which may be bruised, but are devoid of muck, which was the point. He hums a little in something akin to vague satisfaction, and it is, of a kind. Then he lifts his hands from skin, and takes a step back. “All clean,” he announces, and reaches for a towel to dry his hands.

Geralt grunts, and he’s still radiating displeasure in the way he does when he thinks Jaskier’s being unreasonable. He doesn’t say thank you; it’s the same old “mm” of non-comment that Jask is getting used to now, but he’ll take it as gratitude because he doesn’t say anything else, and goes back to washing the rest of himself like he had before Jaskier had stepped in to help.

And that, warmth aside, is that.

Jask smiles as he turns away, brief, there and gone. Then he’s fanning his hands to dry the damp, and reaching for his doublet to slip back on. “I’m going out,” he says. “See if I can’t rustle up some coin.”

“If you think you’ve got to.”

“I do and I am,” Jaskier says firmly, and then laughs. “If you’re asleep before I’m back, good night, Geralt.”

“Hmm. Yeah. You too.”

He stays at the bar until _late,_ nursing a spot by the fire and ale that keeps flowing as the night goes on. He tests the waters with other originals, gauging the sobriety– lack thereof– of the crowd, and then hits with his new magnum opus. They _know_ the song. They’ve _heard_ it. Some know the words, and the ones who don’t still hum and laugh and dance and toast, but they _know_ it. So they sing about witchers and elves and coins, and Jask feels giddy with the fame, the recognition, and the small pile of coin he collects by the time his head’s swimming from the alcohol.

He tries to be quiet when he lets himself back into their tiny shared room, he really does. But Geralt’s still awake when he opens the door, so he lets himself speak, exhausted but practically bubbling over with excitement from the night.

“You’re awake!”

Geralt looks between him, and the door. “How could I _sleep?”_

They had gotten… _raucous,_ but best for the trade. “Sorry,” he apologizes, dismissive, “but _coin,_ Geralt!” He dangles the pouch in front of him, and then tosses it onto the bed. “Told you I could.”

“I didn’t say you _couldn’t.”_

Jask is a little too far gone to do much but grin and half undress in preparation for sleep. He barely manages to crawl into bed next to Geralt without tangling himself in the blanket, but he drops his head onto the pillow graciously, abruptly drained now.

He’s too tired to focus on anything else in earnest, but he does notice, just a little, how Geralt stays on his own side of the bed, far removed as possible. It’s a little sad, same as before, but that, Jaskier decides, like his songs, is something he’s just going to have to work on in the future.

  
**2.  
  
**

“Here.” He rubs the bar into a lather between his hands before Geralt can so much as sniff in protest. “You’ve got blood in your hair.” It’s his warning, and his intention. For a moment, Geralt tenses… and then he relaxes back against the tub again, inasmuch Jaskier sees him relax while conscious. It is very tacit, but very obvious, to him, permission, and Jask slips his hands into Geralt’s blood-caked hair and starts to wash.

He doesn’t give Geralt time to protest, but nevertheless, he doesn’t say a word, anyway. Does this mean he’s starting to _trust_ him? Oooor maybe it’s just that he’s tired– and he does look exhausted– and knows it’s an episode in futility to try and do it himself when he has a perfectly capable friend there to look out for him instead. Jask would like to think it’s trust, but… well, it is, either way, in a sense, isn’t it? He’s not complaining.

Geralt tips his head back, and Jaskier smiles.

He’s got nice hair, Geralt, when it’s not caked in blood and guts. Long and loose when it’s not pulled back, which is usually just… early morning, after sleep, or when he’s got to re-tie it. And soft. It’s as soft as it looks, which isn’t what you _expect_ from someone like Geralt, someone who _looks_ like Geralt, but gods, he must have taken good care of his hair in the past. Afforded a proper barber shop visit now and again… yeah, must have. Must _do._ Jaskier carefully strokes his soapy fingers through the strands of white, and works the red from each of the individual strands.

He’d asked him, once, how old he was. It had just slipped out, okay, not his most _polite_ question, but… genuine, alright? Geralt had never told him, specifically, which meant he was _old,_ but had gotten right into the thing with his hair before Jaskier could even really get there himself.

_Witcher experiments,_ he’d said. He’d said it sarcastic but bitter, and that had been that. So Geralt had lost the pigmentation in his hair by way of his witcher trials, the same way he’d probably lost a lot of things, then, and Jaskier knows that isn’t a _good_ thing, but… either way? He does like Geralt’s hair. It’s nice, and unique, and very pleasant to run his fingers through right now.

“Hold your breath,” he chirps, and nabs the bucket for a rinse. Geralt exhales sharply, shakes his head a bit like a wet dog and rubs the water from his face. “Hold on.” Jask rests his hand against his arm, and picks up the soap again. “I can’t wash this all out in one go.”

Geralt sighs, and relents.

“It’s not _my_ fault you get so caked in shit.”

“Not shit this time.”

“This time,” Jaskier hums, and lathers up again. This time, he sets to paying attention to Geralt’s head instead of hair, kneading his fingertips in tiny circles at his scalp. Maybe he takes too much time, puts too much care into it. But Geralt _relaxes_ like that, sinking lower in the tub of hot water, and that makes Jaskier linger. It doesn’t kill all the tension– does the man even _relax_ in his sleep? He’s never awake by the time Geralt drops off, really, so he _honestly_ can’t say– but it’s a start.

He’s getting under those chinks in Geralt’s armor. Bit by bit. He’s starting to believe Geralt might even _like_ him now, he thinks, joking to himself. That more than anything else right now makes him laugh, and Geralt doesn’t miss a trick.

“What’re you laughing at?”

“Nothing.” Knee-jerk reaction. He can practically _hear_ Geralt raise his eyebrows. So Jask gives him a different kind of truth. “Just thinking you look like a drowned rat.”

“At least I don’t look like a–”

Jaskier dumps another bucket of water over his head before he can continue, and laughs when Geralt sends a spray of water back at him over the wall of the tub.

  
**3.  
  
**

“Hey–”

“Need some help?”

He’d more or less figured, and he’s already rolling up his sleeves before Geralt can rightfully answer. It’s becoming a habit, this, and Jaskier is _glad._ He knows what that means. He knows what it means, coming from Geralt… coming from a witcher, who didn’t let his guard down around anyone. But Geralt’s letting his guard down around Jask more and more these days, and Jaskier goes to wash the spots Geralt can’t reach, eager.

He rinses his hair carefully after the wash, pouring the water slowly and carefully, keeping it out of his eyes the best he can. Geralt barely moves, barely breathes, this time. It’s a little… unusual. Jaskier leans over his shoulder enough to peer at his face, just a little, and Geralt’s eyes are shut, and they don’t reopen until Jask pulls back.

“You okay?” he ventures, setting the bucket down. It has been a long day, that’s for sure, and the water is so hot he can feel the steam rising himself. He thinks he’d probably be getting sleepy if he wasn’t so focused on the intimacy of the bath– something he’s been trying _not_ to focus on, these days, but what can he do?– but Geralt doesn’t usually… get that boneless. He just hopes that he isn’t _hurt_ or something, _again,_ and hasn’t told him–

“Yeah,” Geralt says. Rumbles, more like, and Jaskier realizes with a start that _Geralt_ is the one sounding groggy. “Feels nice,” he continues, mumbling _just_ a little.

Jaskier flares up warm, flush with pleasure and something else. That’s the best compliment he could get, here. “Oh,” he says, a little pathetically, but beams because Geralt can’t see him from this angle. _“Well_ then,” he carries on, and dips his hands back into the water to warm them again. “I’m glad,” he says, honest, and picks up the soap to lather up Geralt’s back without asking.

Miracle of miracles, Geralt doesn’t breathe a word of protest.

Jaskier lets himself go further than he’s used to, then, not only washing Geralt’s hair and back like usual, but smoothing his hands carefully along shoulder blades and spine, running his fingers gently over the age-old scars Geralt’s had that Jaskier doesn’t want to think about how he’d gotten. He has no reason to pay those special attention, but he does. Because Geralt lets him. Because he has so many questions but doesn’t feel _quite_ like he’s at liberty to ask yet. And… because he wants to, really. Oh, he _really_ doesn’t want to think about what that means, either.

But he knows. He knows, he thinks, with a tiny, sad smile, but he keeps working at the knots in Geralt’s back all the same. He’s never been good at resisting temptation. Or much of anything at all, evidently.

He feels the moment Geralt goes _lax,_ almost directly coinciding when the witcher’s head lolls forward, just a fraction of an inch. Asleep. He’s _sleeping._ Jask barely swallows a laugh. He doesn’t want to wake him. But then, well, he guesses he’ll have to, anyway, won’t he? And he really can’t be comfortable like that, and the water’ll go cold sooner than later.

… still. Jaskier lets his hands tarry a moment longer. Rubs at what has to be aching muscles, smoothes over raised blemishes. Drinks in the warmth from his skin, and the sensation of Geralt pliant beneath his hands.

Then he rests his palm lightly at his nape, and speaks up. “Geralt.” He squeezes gently, and taps his fingers against his neck. “Geralt, you’re dozing.” Geralt groans, a drawn-out noise of discomfort and discontent. He moves a little, and straightens up. Jaskier slips both hands to his shoulders, and pats one of them. “You need _proper_ sleep,” he stresses. “Come on now.”

He laughs warmly when Geralt struggles with a towel, and again when their ever capable witcher barely manages to step into a pair of pants before crawling into bed. He must be _exhausted_ tonight.

Come to think of it, Jaskier is, too. He doesn’t wait to watch Geralt doze again, but blows out the candle to settle down for the night himself.

He thinks Geralt will sleep soundly. He thinks he will, too.

  
**\+ 1**  
  


For a moment, the water feels so hot he thinks he gets _goosebumps,_ and then he lets out a breath that is absolutely a groan before sagging in on himself. It’s been a long day, a _bad_ day, Jaskier corrects himself, and sinks further into the water. He wants to sink into it and disappear… _if_ only he weren’t more than a little terrified at the fear of death by drowning. He’s a little scared of a lot of water. As it is, he huddles as low as he can in the scalding hot water, and tries to let it wash away the aches of the day. Physical and mental.

… he is so tired.

He’s trying not to focus on the events of the day, he really is, but he’s so wound up in his own thoughts that he _jerks_ when Geralt lets himself back into their room. His nerves pull taut and feel ready to snap, and he feels so completely unstable when Geralt apologizes for startling him that he can’t even croak out a word in reply.

He ought to just go to bed. But this water is hot, and feels heavenly, and he hates to waste it. And the effort involved in getting out of the tub and redressing for bed feels… draining. So he stays in the tub for a while longer, trying to soak away the day’s pains.

It doesn’t work. He thinks he needs to get drunk instead.

“Need me to wash your hair?”

The question’s so out of the blue that _that,_ more than anything else, draws Jaskier out of his funk. Because Geralt’s not only initiating conversation– probably trying to cheer him up, because he knows he’s been sensing his mood but he’s been too worn out to try and pretend– but he’s asking if he wants him to… wash his hair.

Needless to say, Jask is just a little… surprised. “What…?”

“Doesn’t look like you’re going to do it.”

“I just haven’t gotten around to it,” he murmurs.

“Mm hm.”

The crux of the thing, though: he _doesn’t_ feel like it. Like washing down or lathering up his own hair. It involves moving, and that’s a lot right now. And it doesn’t seem like it’s going to get much better without sleep or drink.

That asides, it’s… really a tempting thought.

“Sure,” he acquiesces, drawing his knees up to his chest to keep the exposed part of his body warm. “You owe me, anyway,” he tries, aiming for a joke. “For all the other times.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agrees, and doesn’t take the bait. “Lean back.”

“Sure.” Instead of bothering to hand him the soap, he lets Geralt reach for it himself, and sits quietly as the witcher gets to work. He’s just tired. That’s all. That’s the only reason he lets Geralt do this at all, the only reason Geralt’s offering in the first place. But that’s okay, too.

… more than, truly.

He still doesn’t really get it, how Geralt manages to take up most of the space in an area and still handles things so carefully. With hands that can cut down beasts– man and monsters alike– and then rub soap into Jaskier’s hair with gentle, determined precision. It’s bizarre, even now, even after that whole terrible thing with the djinn. He tries not to think about that, either, how easily Geralt had thrown him over his shoulder and carried him towards safety. Strong and capable. Strong and capable hands, scratching lightly at his scalp, smoothing the hair at his temples and away from his ears.

Gods, it feels _good._ It feels so good.

Geralt applies just enough pressure where it feels like a massage more than anything else. Oh, he knows it still serves its purpose. There’s soap and water and Geralt spares no lack of attention. But the feel of Geralt’s fingers smoothing through his hair, rubbing sweat and oil away from his scalp makes him care not a _whit_ if his hair’s getting clean or not right now. Just as long as Geralt keeps doing it.

He swipes a thumb against Jaskier’s neck, probably catching a clump of bubbles, rubs the tips of pointer and middle fingers into the nape of Jaskier’s neck. Then back up again, sweeping his hair away from Jaskier’s forehead, wetting it back into the soap and water, and it feels so much like care and comfort that a noise gets caught in Jask’s throat, and his breath catches deep in his chest. He thinks his eyes burn, and he realizes he’s managed to catch himself right on the edge of a _sob._

Geralt’s hands still.

Jaskier breathes.

“Don’t _stop,”_ he blurts. Begs, pushing his head into Geralt’s palm a little more firmly. “You’re magical. Your hands are magical.”

There’s a moment where Jaskier’s desperate– there’s no other word– and aching, thinking Geralt will pull away. He knows Geralt’s assessing, _seeing_ things Jask isn’t sure he wants him to see… but then Geralt huffs, a breath of amusement, and continues. “You’re thinking of Yen.”

“I’m not thinking of Yen.”

Geralt hums, and goes back to finding points of pain and pressure Jask hadn’t even known were there. And when he finishes with Jask’s hair, Geralt moves down to his shoulders like Jaskier always does when it’s the other way around, thumbs digging into water warmed skin and making Jask sag in pleasure-pain-relief.

He doesn’t know what Geralt is doing with his hands, and doesn’t know how he knows how to do that, but Geralt keeps prodding and pushing without a word, and abruptly, the exhaustion hits hard. He feels his head loll, and he tries to keep his eyes open. He really does. He doesn’t want to miss a moment. But oh, this is the most relaxed he thinks he’s ever been in his _life._ The stress of the day has been washed away, and he can’t keep himself awake, no matter how hard he tries.

He drops off, more comfortable than ever, and doesn’t wake up until he’s tucked into bed. Naked but warm, and still oh so cozy. Geralt’s asleep next to him, breathing slow and deep and calming. He doesn’t even remember Geralt getting him out of the bath, let alone into their usual shared bed. But it’s okay. It’s still more than okay. Jaskier’s more than willing to put himself into Geralt’s more than capable hands. Now and always.

He pats Geralt’s arm sleepily, mumbles a goodnight, and dozes off to dreamland again.

**Author's Note:**

> needed some SOFT... Geralt slowly getting used to Jaskier's penchant for casual touch... them getting to know each other intimately in a way that's slightly different to what Jaskier's emotions want but.... there's all different types of ways to love someone... and he's the one who knows Geralt the most, perhaps even more than Yen knows him... he may be pining but it's absolutely a-okay with him if nothing happens because you know what... he's coaxing the best out of Geralt, and he cherishes that so very deeply, no matter what the future holds ❤️


End file.
